


With a Bang

by Patomac



Category: Original Work
Genre: End of the World, M/M, Monsters, Mutation, Post-Apocalypse, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23780071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patomac/pseuds/Patomac
Summary: The world ended six weeks ago, but George is still here.
Relationships: OC/OC
Kudos: 9
Collections: Let's Create Spring Madness 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrinceDork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceDork/gifts).



The apocalypse was absolute murder on George’s hair.

He grimaced at his reflection in the broken shop window. His once perfectly coiffed brown locks had frizzed out into a beauty school drop-out’s best approximation of a perm. The skin around his eyes, once perfectly moisturized, was sallow and starting to sag. Starvation had finally given him abs, but he missed sushi. And filet mignon. And Cheetos.

God. His kingdom for a bag of Cheetos.

Never mind that his kingdom was a third story walkup with no running water and no air conditioning. He had it to himself, thank God, but it in the August heat it was becoming an airless, joyless sweatbox. Not to mention the smells drifting upward from down below.

George tore his gaze away from his reflection and slid to the side. Some previous patron had already removed the glass panels from the shop’s front door. How considerate.

Inside, the air was dark and not a little bit damp. The faint smell of rot hung in the air. George didn’t investigate—he’d learned that lesson already. Instead, he headed straight for the food aisle.

Which was, predictably, empty.

He let out a sigh. If this kept up, he was going to have to start eating mud mask. It contained peach extract, so there had to be something nutritional in there, right?

He was about to go and consult the label when a crash sounded from the back of the store. George froze. His heart danced a samba in his chest.

Another crash echoed through the building. Then a grunt. And then another crash. Footsteps reverberated through the building, coming closer. Coming towards him.

He ducked behind an empty cat food display just in time. An enormous shape burst through the door of the shop, sending glass shards flying like rain.

The monsters usually came at night. They prowled the deserted streets of the city, wrapped in an otherworldly mist that made them nearly impossible to describe. Some people said they looked like shaggy, overgrown dogs. Others swore they were enormous snakes, slithering and writing their way through town.

He’d caught a glimpse of one once from the balcony of his apartment. It had been a hundred yards away, and he’d nearly shit his pants.

George let out an earsplitting shriek. He clamped his hand over his mouth, but it was too late. The monster had heard him.

The beast’s horned head swung towards him. Thick scales covered the surface, crinkled as crocodile skin. Pincers convulsed in front of the creature’s mouth. Dozens of eyes glittered in the sunlight reflecting in from the window. George saw his own face reflected there, scattered and scarred.

And then something flashed and the head fell. Blood spurted from the stump of the creature’s neck, spraying George in gore.

He stared at it, stunned.

Heavy footsteps crunched on the glass. “You have shit luck.”

George couldn’t seem to move. His eyes were locked on the creature, still bleeding out on the floor.

“Hey.” A boot nudged him. “You alive?”

George looked up. The boot was attached to an enormous tree trunk of a leg, which was in turn attached to a broad, muscular chest. Two arms were crossed over it at present, displaying two sets of bulging biceps to exceptionally good effect. Above the biceps, a sculpted face peered down at him. Two thick eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

And well then, George thought. How about that.

“You killed it,” George said. “You killed the monster.”

“Yes.”

Yes. A simple word. No boasting, no bragging, no equivocation. If George had killed this thing, he’d have written a bloody song. “You’re modest,” he said.

“There’s plenty left to kill.”

George couldn’t argue. No one knew how many of the things there were. No matter how many the national guard gunned down, there always seemed to be more.

He cleared the glass from around him carefully, using the side of his hand. “I suppose I should thank you.”

The man grunted. George waited for another response, but it seemed that none was forthcoming.

He gingerly drew himself to his feet. “Do you rescue people from slathering monsters often?”

“Sometimes,” the man said. He turned, and headed down one of the darkened aisles.

A flash of alarm surged through George. “Wait! I didn’t… I didn’t get your name!”

“You don’t need it.”

“I don’t need the name of the man who saved my life? I disagree.”

The man stopped in front of the allergy section. Precious little was left on the shelves.

George waited for a reply. When that didn’t come, he waited for the man to grab a bottle—or five—and storm off.

But he didn’t.

“Are you looking for something?”

“Pills.”

Silence. Somewhere outside, a crow cawed. “What kind of pills?”

“Claritin. I have allergies.”

George studied the man. Now that he was looking, his eyes did look a little red. But maybe that was all the blood.

He turned to the shelf. “They’re all out,” he said. “But it looks like there’s Zyrtec?” George offered a bottle to the man.

He took it, frowning. He did a lot of frowning, it seemed. “This stuff work?”

“It should,” George said. “It kind of depends on your body chemistry.”

The man grunted. He stared at the bottle some more. “You some kind of doctor?”

“Pharmacy tech, two years in college,” George said. “Thought I was going to be a pharmacist, actually, but I didn’t—hey, where are you—are you leaving?”

The man didn’t deign to reply. He simply stomped back towards the front of the store.

George threw up his hands. “You didn’t tell me your name!”

The man strode out through the door without so much as a backwards glance.


	2. Chapter 2

It was more than a week before George saw the man again. To be fair, it was more than a week before George got up the nerve to leave his apartment. Dreams of fanged, leathery monsters had left dark circles under his eyes.

But his supplies had finally run out. He’d eaten his last can of chicken broth last night, and first thing this morning, his stomach made sure to let him know that this state of affairs was no longer acceptable. He needed food. He needed it now.

And so it was that George found himself not at the corner store, nor indeed in any of the stores on his block, but farther afield. Every store in his neighborhood had been cleared out, and so, despite the starvation and the lack of water, and the general discomfort of the August heat, George found himself hoofing it three neighborhoods away, to what had once been the business district.

The skyscrapers towered above him, silent, looming ghosts of an age that seemed farther away every instant.

George knew his plan was half-baked at best. Swipe his card in his old office building. Hope to God it still worked. Climb three flights of stairs to his former office, take out a hammer, and smash holes in the front of all the vending machines. If he was lucky—really lucky—he’d be the first to think of the idea, and they’d still be stocked with whatever had been around when the business had shut down.

He was ten feet away from the door when it rounded the corner.

This time, the monster didn’t walk on four legs; it didn’t appear to have legs. It slithered forward on sinuous, undulating coils. The thick scales on its back glistened black in the sunlight, not ridged and bumped, but smooth and interlocking. Wings protruded from the beast’s back, thin and so membranous that George could see the stop sign on the corner through them. A forked tongue, thin and flailing, licked out to scent the air.

This time George didn’t freeze. He ran.

His employee ID was already in his hand. He dashed into the vestibule of his office building—open, thank God—and swiped it over the sensor.

One second. Two. Then a red flash. Access denied.

He swiped it again. And one more time, just to make sure. But all three times, the same red light greeted him.

George wheeled around. Okay, he thought. He just had to stay calm. Stay quiet. Maybe the monster hadn’t noticed him. Maybe it would just pass him by.

A shadow darkened the glass outside of the vestibule. A low, sinuous hiss tripped its way up his spine.

George dropped his backpack on the ground. He hadn’t packed rope—he didn’t have rope—but he had an old cell phone charger shoved at the bottom of the bag somewhere. He dug around frantically—where was it, where was it—ah ha! There! He seized it between quaking fingers.

Quickly, he looped it around the door handles and tied it in a knot.

The monster approached in a slow, constant slither. Every once in a while it would stop. Its slick, black tongue would lash out, scenting the air. And then, inevitably, inexorably, it would continue forward towards the office doors. Towards George.

Its snout pressed up against the doors. They swung in, just slightly. The monster’s tongue slid out, tasting the air.

George curled into a ball in the corner and prayed.

The monster pressed forward against the glass. The double doors bent inwards until they caught on the power cord. The tongue lashed out again, into the narrow vestibule. It stopped mere feet away from George’s face.

George’s stomach cramped. Forced into a corner, there was nothing he could do but watch. And watch he did, as the creature coiled its length, inching further into the glass, pressing the entirety of its weight against the door.

The power cord creaked.

George stared as the creature retreated slightly. As it coiled itself backwards, preparing for its next strike. How long would he live, he wondered, after the creature broke through the glass?

Sweat poured down his forehead. He rocked up into a crouch.

The creature launched itself at the glass. The cord holding the doors in place snapped, and five hundred pounds of massive, ornery snake spilled into the vestibule. George let out a shriek and lunged forward, kicking the creature in the jaw.

To his surprise, the kick connected. Even more to his surprise, the creature did not immediately devour him whole. George launched himself into the air, scrabbling over the creature’s back and into the street.

Where he immediately collided with a broad, muscular figure.

George knew that body. When his dreams hadn’t been tormented with crocodile-skinned monsters, they’d been haunted by this man.

“It’s you!”

“Out of the way,” the man said, and threw him aside. To George’s shock, he rushed towards rather than away from the monster. In his left hand he clutched something wicked and sharp.

“Is that a machete?” George shouted, amazed.

The machete in question swept around like a whip. It caught the monster in the middle of its body, and cleaved clean through.

The beast let out an ear-splitting, deadly bellow.

The machete was already in motion again, as the man darted forward, lashing out at the monster. He cleaved another hole in its hide, and then another, and then another. Soon, the beast was nothing more than a twitching, bleeding mass of flesh and scales.

The man stood over it, breathing hard. Blood, deep red, darker than George had ever seen, flecked his face, his clothes, and his arms. George’s breath caught in his chest.

He stumbled forward. “That was amazing,” he said. “You—and the—” he mimed slashing at the snake. “You saved me again.”

The man only grunted. He wiped each side of his sword against the outside of his leg.

George edged a little closer. The flesh on the inside of the monster was like nothing he’d ever seen. Instead of red, it shone purple in the sun. “What is this thing?” 

“Don’t know,” the man said.

“But you killed it,” George said. “Surely you must know something.”

The man slid his machete into a sheath strapped to his belt. “Most things die if you cut them in half.”

Most things die if you cut them in half. The words rambled through George’s head, on and on in a loop. He felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“Yes,” he managed. “I suppose that’s true.”

They went back to looking at the creature.

“Well,” George said, after a moment. “You’ve saved my life twice now. I’d offer to buy you dinner, if there were any restaurants left.”

The man’s lip twitched. Was that… was that a smile?

“You still haven’t told me your name,” George said.

“Whitney,” the man said. And, without another word, he turned and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

The roar of the crowd in the pub had reached a deafening level.

“Is this what life is now?” George asked the man on the barstool next to him. He was taller than George, and skinny as a rail, though the defined muscles of his forearms suggested that he’d managed to find some physical work. It had been months since most people had given up hope of having the government save them, and now most folks were binding together, forming their own communities. They’d erected walls around their own enclaves to keep out the monsters that spawned in the dead of night, and as far as George could tell, it was mostly working. People were safer in than out. They’d tilled any spare green space they could find, and late season vegetables were still, reluctantly, being coaxed from the ground.

Based on the sunburn on the gentleman next to him—Marco, if George remembered correctly, George suspected that most of the people in this enclave had been forced into digging, planting, and tilling. There were probably some brave folks manning the border. The rest were invested in getting as many supplies as they could before winter came.

“Life is about surviving,” the man said. “Enjoying the food you eat. The beer you drink. The company you keep.”

The light in Marco’s eyes made George’s stomach flutter. He contorted his features into an expression of false shock. “You would associate with an outsider?”

Marco took a slow, deliberate drink. “You don’t have to be an outsider,” he said. He reached out, running a finger down George’s forearm. “You could stay.”

George’s lips twisted. Like everyone else, he’d seen the enclaves forming in the city. He’d seen how they hoarded and distributed resources among themselves. In many regards, enclave living was a better bet than striking it out on your own.

But after the incident with the snake monster, George had taken a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t like where the city was going. He didn’t like the fact that people were just adjusting to the fact that monsters were roaming the streets. No one knew what they were. Yet.

And so, George had taken to roaming. Most days, he prowled the streets, looking for evidence of monsters. Some days he found a corpse, rotting on the street, untouched by buzzards, and dragged it home for analysis. Other days he found droppings or attack sites too gruesome to be described. He recorded all of it in a little journal he kept at his side, looking for patterns. Looking for clues.

His wandering had taken him through more than one area of the city. And as the enclaves grew more and more insular, more and more starved for outside contact, George found that they’d pay for news. What was 3rd and Jefferson doing with their corn supply? Was 15th and DePaul still taking refugees? Often enough, the answers to these questions were more than enough to buy George safe passage and a meal for the night. Sometimes there was additional money to be made.

As a life, it wasn’t much. But it was better than becoming a farmer, for Christ’s sake.

George pitched his voice low. “I can stay the night.” George dipped his head. “If you’re interested.”

A smile pulled at the other man’s lips. The finger that had been tracing George’s forearm became a hand tugging at his own. “I am so interested.”

It might have been a splendid night. It might have relieved some of George’s pent-up stress, not to mention his terrible, aching loneliness.

It might have been. If it weren’t for the monsters.

The shrill call of alarms shrieked through the pub. Marco winced, but George grew taller in his seat.

“What is it?” he said. “What’s happening?”

“An attack,” Marco said. “Something’s breached the walls.”

A hot pulse of anticipation lanced up George’s spine. He’d been studying the monsters for months now, but he hadn’t seen one alive since that last, ill-fated trip to his office. He was sick to death of dissecting corpses and interviewing survivors. He needed to get a look at this one in the flesh.

George and Marco stood at the same time. Marco reached for George’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “There’s a shelter next door—it used to be a bank. The walls of the vault are at least a foot thick.”

George glanced down at Marco’s tanned fingers, callused from God only knew how many days of hard work. For half an instant, he let himself live through the rest of the night. Cowering in the vault with Marco and forty of his other closest friends. Stealing touches through the night, only to emerge in the dawn to find the streets of the settlement painted in red.

George swallowed hard.

“You go,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “I have something I need to do.”

Marco gaped at him. “Something to do? Like what? You can’t leave here.”

“I’m not leaving.” George grimaced. “Not exactly.”

It took Marco a moment to catch up to that statement. His eyes grew wide as the abandoned beer bottles scattered across the bar. “You can’t mean…”

George smiled. He lunged forward to steal a kiss. It was short, but bracing. “’Fraid so,” he said. “See you around.”

He slipped out of the bar, leaving Marco behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

The streets of the settlement emptied within minutes. Reedy candlelight spilled out of dirty windows, casting a dull pall on the asphalt below George’s feet. Silence hung around him, thick and heavy as a moth-bitten quilt. Even the sound of his footsteps felt muffled. Strangely quiet.

He’d expected to hear shouts from the settlement’s defenders. Maybe even shots, as they fired on the monster threatening to breach their safe zone. What was the point of having walls if you didn’t vigorously defend them? If you didn’t ensure that no demon-spawn traveled freely within?

Like a moth, George followed the brightest light he could find. It led him to the easternmost wall of the settlement, where a single floodlight shone outward onto the city streets. A guard post made of flat, grey concrete sat just behind it. Its black windows peered out into the night.

“Oi!” A voice hissed at him from the dark. “What are you doing down there?”

George saw no reason to lie. “Looking for monsters.”

A second passed. Then another. “You got a death wish?”

“Not particularly,” George said. He turned on the spot. “Where are you?”

A flash of motion caught his eye from a nearby building. George’s head tilted back and up until he was squinting at a pale hand sticking out of a window. “Up here.”

“Where are the guards?” George asked.

“Blew the siren and ran off,” the voice said. “I’m the only one left.”

George didn’t point out that the guard in the building seemed to have run off, too. “Do you have a good vantage point up there?”

“Good enough,” the guard said. “Door around the side of the building is unlocked. Apartment 317.”

George followed his instructions down a dingy alley and up three flights of windowless stairs. Most of the doors on the third floor stood open; the apartments that had once been within were empty and bare.

The door to 317 was open as well. A low couch was visible from the doorway. A woman knelt on top of it, using the back to steady a rifle.

A chill chased its way down George’s spine. She’d probably had that thing centered on him just a few minutes before.

“You gonna stand there in the door all night?” she asked without turning around.

George moved farther into the apartment. He sat on the arm of the couch, peering through the top of the window at the still alleyway outside. “That’s quite a rig you’ve got there,” George said.

The girl spat. “It’s a twenty-five-year-old, half-rusted double-barrel. It’s meant for hunting rabbits.”

“Still,” George said. “Must make the monsters think twice.”

“Sometimes,” the girl agreed.

They waited in silence as the minutes dragged on.

“Where are the monsters?” George asked.

“Fuck if I know,” the girl said. “Maybe some dumbass was fooling around with the alarm.”

“Or maybe they left,” George said.

The girl snorted. “Left. Sure. Right.”

The minutes continued to drag by. George grew sore from sitting on the arm of the couch.

“Stop fidgeting,” the girl said.

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“Yes, you are. A good sniper needs to learn to wait. To bide her time.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a sniper.”

“I’m not. Yet.”

Just as George was going to give up the stake-out for good, a faint, whuffing sound echoed from the streets below. A clicking like the gentle tap of a cat’s claws reached his ears.

George shifted on the couch. “Steady,” the girl whispered.

At first glance, the creature that emerged onto the street below looked like nothing more than an overgrown housecat. Its black banded fur was smooth and glossy in the bright spotlight. Two tufted ears were perked up, twitching back and forth, scanning for danger. Enormous claws clacked against the ground as it walked.

George held his breath as he watched the creature prowl towards the gate. This was by far the most normal creature he’d seen in all his wanderings. A year ago, if he’d seen it in a zoo, he wouldn’t have been surprised. What did that mean for the creatures wandering the streets? If they were aliens, as some wild theorists had suggested, were they now taking on forms more appropriate to earth? Was this some kind of move towards stabilization? Or was the mega-cat in the street below an aberration among aberrations?

George was still working through the consequences of that information when the creature strode up to the wall and calmly, effortlessly walked straight through it.

“Holy shit,” George said, at the same time as the girl fired. Shot scattered across the street below. The creature’s back arched and it let out an ear-splitting hiss.

“Did you see that?” George said. “Did you fucking see that?”

“I fucking saw it,” the girl said. She reloaded the shotgun in a few quick movements, hefted it, and fired. Another shot boomed in George’s ear. The creature flinched as shot rained down on its hide. A bright blue liquid began to seep from its pelt.

“Fascinating!” George said. “It’s bleeding blue, like a horseshoe crab! That must mean there’s copper in its blood rather than iron.”

“As long as it’s bleeding,” the girl said, and lined up another shot.

For a few, long minutes, the girl rained shrapnel down on the creature in the street below. It retreated a few paces, taking cover behind the concrete guard station. The shot flying through the air kept it pinned against the wall, snarling and hissing like a caged tiger.

And then the shooting stopped. The girl raised her rifle. George turned to give her a questioning look.

She shrugged. “I’m out of ammo.”

And just like that, the creature pounced. This time, it didn’t prowl the city streets. It didn’t stroll into their midst. It leapt out from under the cover of the guard station and charged at the building where George and the girl were hiding.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

They fled for the door just as the monster launched itself into the air. Its claws snagged on the concrete just one story below.

The girl was already running, shotgun slung across her shoulder. “Where do we go now?” George asked.

“Anywhere but here,” she said.

George had no choice but to run after her. A screeching growl, like a tiger’s cry, split the air from behind them. Heavy paws clomped on the floor.

George followed the girl down a warren of twisting hallways, up one stairwell, and then down another. By the time they emerged into the dark streets, George was panting for breath. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Do you think we lost it?”

A crash sounded as the creature burst through the door behind them, teeth bared in a snarl. George felt his stomach drop out. From the third story, he’d thought it was smaller, but no, the giant cat was easily six feet tall at the shoulder. Its fur wasn’t solid black, but variegated, with patches of gold shining through on its underbelly, thick and rich and beautiful.

It was a good thing it was beautiful. It was going to be the last thing George ever saw.

The creature eyed George through golden, glowing eyes. A low growl issued from its throat. It drew back on its haunches, preparing to pounce.

It leapt.

But not at George. No, it leapt straight in the air, revealing a tall muscular figure standing behind it. A muscular figure carrying a sword that was dripping blue blood.

George’s hard leapt into his throat. Whitney!

Whitney didn’t wait for recognition before stepping forward, shoving his sword into the beast’s innards. It howled and sprang forward, delivering a vicious slash with its claws. The talons raked at Whitney, but he dodged back, avoiding the worst of the blow. He danced to the side before slashing at the beast again.

Part of George wanted to cheer, but his voice was stuck, caught in his throat. Whitney moved like a cross between a dancer and a professional athlete. Every blow he struck was perfectly choreographed to deliver maximum damage to the creature before him. Every step he made was in perfect time, bringing him into range or out of it, towards danger, or away. He walked the knife’s edge of risk and reward, winning, triumphing, every time.

He was a study in grace. Elegance. Beauty, even. And George could not tear his eyes away.

Blue blood made puddles in the street by the time the monster staggered and fell. The killing blow came sudden and swift, one slice of a sword, and the creature’s head rolled from its neck. Its sightless green eyes slowly lost their glow.

Whitney stood over it. Blood painted his face. Claw marks had split his leather jacket in two.

For a long time, no one moved. The girl with the shotgun had run off long ago, leaving George as the sole witness to the battle on the streets.

Whitney grunted. “Why do we keep meeting this way?”

George gave a weak laugh. “Bad habit, I suppose.”

Whitney made a rumbling noise, deep down in his chest. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” George said. He couldn’t quite hide the awe in his voice. “Thanks to you. You saved my life.”

“Don’t mention it,” Whitney said.

He turned as if to leave, but instead of stepping forward with that effortless grace, he stumbled. The stumble became a stagger, and then a drag. He clutched at the torn halves of his jacket.

George’s eyes flew wide. “You’re hurt!”

“Just a scratch,” the man said.

George crossed the street in an instant, leaving the broken body of the monster behind. He stepped in front of Whitney, and without so much as a ‘by your leave’ began pulling his jacket apart. The shirt beneath was soaked in blood.

“Christ,” George said. “You’re going to bleed out.”

“I’m fine,” the man said, trying to shove him away.

George slapped his hand. “You’re not fine. We need to bandage this. Hell, I’d say we need a surgeon for it if I knew where to get one.”

The man was staring at George’s hand. “Did you just hit me?”

“Yes, I did, you buffoon. What are you going to do, shove me away and bleed out on the street?”

And so it was with much grumbling that George managed to help Whitney back into the apartment building they’d just vacated. He propped him up on a couch in a sitting room on the first floor.

“We’ll need this off,” George said, shoving at the jacket. “The shirt as well.”

The man grimaced. “Best not. I think it’s the only thing holding me together.”

George’s hands froze. He looked into Whitney’s face. It was pale, locked in a sort of grimace.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“Wish I were.”

George’s hands started to shake. “Bandages,” he said, leaping to his feet. “We’ll need bandages. I’ll go get some.”

He launched himself into the hallway without waiting for the man’s reply. George flew up two flights of stairs to the third floor apartment where he’d found the girl with the shot gun. The window where he’d watched the monster was now missing, along with most of the wall. The couch had been overturned. What little furniture there was looked like it seen the worse end of a freight train.

Which, as it turned out, worked in George’s favor. The little medicine kit, prepared, undoubtedly, by sniper woman, was exposed on the floor in the middle of the room.

George snapped it up and rushed back downstairs. “Found the kit,” he said, as he stepped back into the room.

Whitney had shifted in George’s absence. He’d managed to lift one of his legs onto the couch. His head was tipped back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat.

George swallowed and set the kit down on the floor next to the couch. He rifled through it with unsteady hands, extracting gauze, tape, and score! Actual disinfectant.

He doused a swab with it and pressed up onto his knees. “Can I see?”

Whitney loosened his grip on his jacket, and George carefully peeled it apart. The shirt underneath was so soaked with blood that it was stuck to Whitney’s body. Two claw marks, livid and red, showed through the fabric.

When they’d first met at the drug store all those months ago, George might have thrown up. But he’d been dissecting corpses in his landlord’s apartment for months now.

“You were right,” he said, around a shaky breath. “It is just a scratch.”

Whitney huffed a laugh. His head was still tilted back, and his eyes remained tightly closed.

“I’m going to try and clean it before we bandage it,” George said. “This may sting.”

If it did, Whitney didn’t give any sign. He lay next to George, still as a stone, as George dragged cotton swab after cotton swab over his abdomen. Though the amount of blood on the shirt had seemed dire, the more George looked at the wounds, the smaller and shallower they seemed to grow.

“If I didn’t know any better,” George said. “I’d say this disinfectant is healing you.”

Whitney huffed. “Maybe it is.”

George’s eyes narrowed. He passed another swab over the lowest claw mark, but kept his eyes on the top one. It grew shorter as he watched.

A shiver traced its way down George’s spine. He’d never seen a man as well built as Whitney, practically carved out of solid muscle. His movements were so precise, so fine. He had the skill to kill multiple monsters when most people couldn’t even figure out what they were.

He always seemed to show up just behind them. As if he were tracking them. Hunting them.

George’s hand stilled. “What are you?” he whispered.

Whitney shifted slightly. “Does it matter?”

Maybe. Possibly. “Yes.”

Whitney sat up. His eyelids cracked open, revealing gloriously green eyes. The kind of eyes George could utterly lose himself in.

The kind of eyes he’d seen on the cat Whitney had just killed.

“I was human,” Whitney said. “Before. But then these things showed up. I was on the street that first night. One of them bit off my leg.”

George’s hands flew to his mouth. He couldn’t help but glance downward. Whitney’s legs were still sprawled out across the couch. George had brushed up against them often enough to know that they were warm.

“I should have died that night,” Whitney said. “Should have gone screaming in the street. But I woke up the next day in the hospital, high on painkillers and sewn up all pretty. They sent me home a week later.”

“That must have been terrible,” George said.

“Not as terrible as what came next,” Whitney said. “Do you know what it feels like to regrow a leg? To have your skin stretch and your bones bend? To feel dead muscles come back to life?”

George shook his head.

Whitney grimaced. His hands clenched on the air. “It’s over now. In the past.”

When he didn’t say any more, George chanced a question. “Does this… does this always happen? When you’re injured?”

“It always heals,” Whitney said. “Quicker than it should. I’d be dead seven times over without it.”

“And the monsters?”

Whitney’s head swiveled. He pinned George with a fierce gaze. “What about them?”

“You hunt them,” George said. “You track them down all over the city. Why?”

Whitney tipped his head back. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment. “I can’t not hunt them,” he said. “There’s something in me… some sort of predator… that lives for it. The chase. The fight. The kill.”

Another shiver rolled down George’s spine. He stared at the man on the couch. At the enormous bulk of him. The defined muscles that riddled every inch of his skin. “Were you always like this?”

A smirk tugged at Whitney’s lips. “Like what?”

Athletic, George meant to say. Muscular.

“Hot.”

Whitney lunged forward at that. His lips landed on George’s, and for a moment, George felt as though he couldn’t breathe. His hands landed on Whitney’s chest, gripped his bloody t-shirt. Pulled him closer.

“Didn’t think I’d be into this,” Whitney said. “Into nerds.”

George bit Whitney’s lip in retaliation. Whitney hissed, and the sound went straight to George’s groin.

“Bite your tongue,” George said.

Whitney’s hands slid around the back of George’s neck. He held him still, pinning him with a too-green gaze. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know how or if it spreads.”

George thought back on his dull apartment. The stinking corpses he had on a metal slab in the basement.

He pulled Whitney closer and bit down on his ear. Whitney hissed, but George paid him no mind.

“Let’s fight monsters together,” he said, and pushed Whitney back down on the couch. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this isn't what you wanted, @PrinceDork! I tried my best, but George kind of took over. Characters, man. Can't live with them, can't live without them. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. :)


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